Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  After a slight hesitation, Muttonchops took his hand, gave a single shake, then released it. “Harvey King. Omaha City.”

  “Hear about the bank that was robbed day before yesterday?”

  Harvey shot him a glance. His eyes were as dark as an empty mine shaft, and about as welcoming. “What bank?”

  “Only one in town. Cattleman’s National, I read.”

  “Read where?”

  “Omaha Herald. Surprised you didn’t hear about it, you being from the town where it happened. But not everybody can read, I guess.”

  “I can read. Just don’t have time for it.”

  “A businessman? What do you do?”

  “This and that.”

  “I’m between jobs myself. Maybe I could look you up when we get to San Francisco, see if you’re hiring. Have you any business cards?”

  “No. And I’m not hiring.”

  “That’s too bad.” He sat a moment longer then pushed himself to his feet. “If there’s no lavatory, guess I should go back to my seat. Perhaps we’ll talk later.”

  No response.

  That was odd, Richard mused, fighting to keep his balance as the train picked up speed. For a resident of Omaha City, Harvey King knew little about it—such as that there were several banks in town, none named Cattleman’s National—and the town newspaper was called the Omaha Sentinel, not the Omaha Herald. Nor had he met a legitimate businessman with the hands of a bare-knuckle street fighter who carried no cards, but did carry two guns, one on his hip and one in an ankle holster. And what were those papers in the pouch he guarded so vigilantly? Wanted flyers? Stolen stock certificates?

  He would have to keep an eye on Harvey King.

  “You’re still aboard?” Rachel asked when he slipped into the aisle seat beside her. Despite the sarcasm, her tone had softened. Probably too weary to sustain her resentment. It had been a long twenty-four hours for both of them.

  “I was visiting.” He eyed the cracker she held. “Is that all you have to eat?”

  “It’s the only thing I can tolerate while we’re moving.” She broke off the corner of the cracker and slipped it between her lips . . . lips that weren’t as red as when she was cold, but still delightfully plump. He hoped to kiss her soon to find out if they were as soft as they looked.

  “I’m glad you decided to sit with me again,” he said.

  “I had no choice. The other car was full.”

  Not strictly true, but he didn’t argue. “I’ll behave.” Picking up the cards and newspaper she’d left on the seat, he began to shuffle. “Blackjack or draw?”

  She chewed her morsel of cracker. “Visiting with whom?”

  “Blackjack it is, then. A man in the second car. Harvey King. Odd fellow.” He checked his cards. Two queens. Excellent. “Stand or hit?” When she didn’t answer, he looked up to find her staring at him in the strangest way. “Stand or hit?” he asked again.

  “Hit. Odd in what way?”

  He flipped over a nine of spades. “He’s a liar.” While she studied her hand, he told her about the discrepancies. “If he’s from Omaha City, he should know the name of the only newspaper and the name of the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust. Another hit?” he asked, his question already forming in his head.

  “I’m bust.” She sat back. “Maybe he only recently moved there.”

  “I doubt it.” He showed his winning hand. “So my question is . . . when do you want me to kiss you?”

  “W-what?”

  “And don’t say never. Never is a long time, and we’ve only a limited time until I get off in Salt Lake City.”

  “You’re outrageous.”

  “I’m interested. Surely you know when a man is interested in you. In your line of work it probably happens all the time.”

  Her beautiful mouth opened then closed then opened again. That blue fire came back into her eyes. “My line of work?” she asked, showing teeth, but not in a friendly way. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Hell. He’d erred again. “Perhaps I made assumptions I shouldn’t have.”

  “About what?”

  He smiled weakly. “How you earn your money.”

  She did that gasping thing again. “What? You think I’m a . . . a . . .”

  “I realize now I was probably wrong,” he cut in before she started shrieking.

  “Probably? Probably?”

  “Definitely. I was definitely wrong.” He tried for a contrite look. “Clearly I’m the nitwit you think I am.”

  “Clearly!”

  He gave her a moment to calm down, then said, “About that kiss . . .”

  “I would rather suck venom from a leper’s leg.”

  Richard shuddered at the image. Disgusting, but not an outright no. There was still hope.

  • • •

  RACHEL simmered in silence until the conductor came in two hours later to inform them they had a hotbox on the rear tender truck—whatever that meant—and would be delayed in Laramie until Cheyenne sent out a replacement axle. “Two days at most. Maybe five. I recommend the Grand Hotel. It’s near the depot, the rooms are mostly clean, they have a decent dining room, and this time of year it’s practically bug free. We should arrive within the hour.”

  Mr. Whitmeyer shifted on the seat. She could sense him studying her, but refused to give him her attention.

  “It’s because of your clothing,” he finally said. “And your poise and beauty.” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Not many women of means would be daring enough to travel alone, especially dressed the way you are.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing. In fact, you look stunning. But the fineness of it does make you stand out among all these other drab travelers. For that reason, and because of your confidence and intelligence, not to mention your rare beauty—”

  “You already did mention it.”

  “What?”

  “My beauty. You listed it twice. But, pray, do continue.”

  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “For all those reasons, I assumed you were in business, the sort of business that would provide wealth and independence while allowing you full control. I could think of only one.”

  A pretty speech, even if only half of it were true. “You’re wrong. There are many positions open to women.”

  “I know. I’ve made a grievous error and I’m deeply sorry. Perhaps you’ll allow me to atone by taking you out for a real meal when we reach Laramie.”

  She studied him, trying to gauge his sincerity. He did seem remorseful, but she saw amusement behind the contrition, and that made it hard for her to keep a stern expression. The man could charm his way out of anything. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Very.”

  “But immoral.”

  “‘Immoral’ is rather harsh. I prefer ‘available.’ It was—and still is—my ardent hope that you are. Available.”

  “Perhaps I am.” She watched a spark flare in his dark eyes and happily quashed it. “For dinner. No more.”

  He grinned, not looking quashed in the least. She would probably need a hammer to do it properly.

  “Excellent. Shall we meet in the Grand Hotel dining room at six o’clock?”

  “Or thereabouts.” First, she had to talk to Harvey King and find out what had gone on between him and Richard Whitmeyer.

  • • •

  THE Grand Hotel was like a hundred other western hotels that had sprung up alongside the tracks when the Union Pacific came through over a decade prior. New enough to still have the piney scent of freshly milled lumber, but old enough to show a bit of wear and tear. Rachel suspected that as towns grew and rail travel became more common, these wooden structures would give way to brick and stone hotels boasting grand lobbies decorated with chandeliers, velvet drapes, and thick carpets. It had already happened along the east coast, and refinements were quickly spreading across to the west.

  Ala
s, they hadn’t reached as far as Wyoming Territory. Even so, the Grand boasted a full washroom and hip bath on the ground floor, and a community convenience on the second level.

  Knowing there would be a rush later, she went directly to the washroom. The old couple got there first, but she didn’t have to wait long. After a quick wash and change of clothing—into something more sedate to assuage Mr. Whitmeyer’s sensibilities, although why it mattered, she couldn’t say—she went up to her room. She had just put away her things when she heard a knock on her door.

  “I checked with Omaha City,” Harvey said, stepping past her. “Nothing new. Still no description.” Crossing to the window, he pushed aside the curtain and peered out. “They seemed to be concentrating east, rather than west. Takes some of the pressure off of us.”

  “Mr. Whitmeyer said he spoke to you earlier.”

  “Sat down beside me, chatty as a schoolgirl.” Letting the curtain fall, he turned to face her. “I don’t trust him.”

  “He doesn’t trust you, either.” She listed the inconsistencies Whitmeyer had mentioned. “You need to be more careful.”

  “You’re lecturing me?”

  “He’s not stupid.” Seeing that belligerent look come over Harvey’s face, she softened her tone. “I’m having dinner with him tonight. Is there anything you want me to find out?”

  He grinned nastily, showing a snaggle of broken teeth, a legacy of his fighting days. “Getting chummy, are you?”

  “You told me to stay close to him.”

  The grin faded. He waved a knobby-knuckled hand in impatience. “Then do what I asked you to do and find out for sure if he’s a bounty hunter, so I can get him out of our way if necessary. And I want to know what his business was in Omaha City, who he’s working for, and why he’s heading to San Francisco.”

  San Francisco? He had told her he was getting off in Salt Lake City.

  Harvey crossed to the door. “I’m in room two ten down on the right. If you learn anything tonight, let me know or slip a note under the door.” He reached for the knob, then hesitated. “You still carry that little Remington derringer?”

  “Always.”

  “Good. If Whitmeyer gives you any trouble, don’t be afraid to use it.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Not of Richard Whitmeyer, anyway.

  But Harvey King was another matter.

  At five minutes before six, she left her room and walked downstairs. Judging by the crowd outside the dining room, they would have a busy night in the kitchen. She hoped Mr. Whitmeyer had made reservations.

  Apparently he had and was already seated.

  The server led her directly to a table between a big window and a crackling fire in a huge, rock fireplace. The tang of wood smoke mingled with the smell of roasting meat. Her empty stomach rumbled.

  He stood when he saw her. “You look especially beautiful in that pretty dress,” he said, helping her with her chair before returning to his own.

  “And hopefully less whorish.”

  His expression changed into something quite fierce. “I would never apply that word to you, Rachel.”

  “Immoral, then.”

  He frowned, his lips pressed in a thin line. Then the anger faded from his dark brown eyes. “I suppose I deserve that.”

  “I suppose you do. But in view of your seemingly heartfelt apology—”

  “It was heartfelt.”

  “—I won’t mention it again.”

  “Thank you.” He let out a deep breath and gave a crooked smile that melted away her lingering pique. The man did have a way about him.

  She studied him, thinking he looked quite handsome himself. It was amazing what a shave, a trim, and a freshly ironed shirt could do for a man—although she missed that shadow of beard on his strong jaw—it went so well with his roguish smile. It pleased her that he had gone to such effort, even though it also made it slightly awkward. After all, it wasn’t as if they were actually stepping out, or forming an attachment to each other. Not really.

  But then again, he had called her Rachel.

  • • •

  “HOW are your accommodations?” Richard asked after their server had placed the evening offering—venison stew with all the trimmings—before them.

  “Quite nice. They don’t move, which I find particularly appealing. And now that the clouds have lifted, I have a lovely view of the river and the mountains across the valley.”

  “Our rooms must face the same direction. I’m in two eighteen.”

  “Two fourteen.”

  He frowned. “Are you sure? I thought I saw Muttonchops coming out of that room earlier.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  But she didn’t meet his eyes when she said it, nor did she ask who Muttonchops was. And suddenly all those doubts circled back through his mind. If not a madam, then was she running a scheme with Muttonchops? Endeavors like that could be lucrative, and required careful thought and deception. The widow James was both wealthy and highly intelligent. Had he been duped by her beauty and his own attraction to it? Had he become that careless?

  They ate without speaking—Richard, mulling over all he knew about the elusive woman across from him; Rachel, taking tiny bites of her meal and refusing to look at him. An air of reserve rose between them and Richard found himself trying to think of something to say that might bring back her saucy smile.

  “What will you be doing in San Francisco?” she asked, breaking the long silence. “Visiting family?”

  “Salt Lake City. Looking for someone.” Odd that she would mention San Francisco so soon after his talk with Muttonchops.

  “An old acquaintance?”

  “Someone I’ve never met.”

  “Sounds quite mysterious.”

  “It isn’t. Just business.” Instinct told him he was being gently interrogated. Not sure of the reason for it, he changed the subject. “Would you care for dessert?” he asked, seeing she had finished her meal.

  “It depends on what they have.”

  At his signal, the server removed their plates then wheeled over the dessert cart. Richard selected a dish of berry cobbler. She chose bread pudding.

  Around them, noise rose and fell as the dining room filled and emptied and filled again, but Richard was reluctant to speak. He wasn’t sure he wanted answers to the questions bouncing around in his head. He admired this woman. He didn’t want to learn she was an enemy.

  Liar. He more than admired Rachel James. He was smitten. Being with her created within him an anxious, edgy feeling he hadn’t experienced in . . . well, ever. He wasn’t certain he liked it. But he couldn’t seem to stay away.

  He watched her take two bites of her dessert, dab a drop of creamy pudding from those lips he so admired, then sit back, her expression unreadable.

  “You said earlier you weren’t a lawman. Could you be a bounty hunter?” She smiled as she said it, but he sensed the answer was important to her.

  Pushing away his empty plate, he took a sip of coffee, found it cold, and set the mug back down. “The notion of hunting down a human being for money is distasteful to me.”

  “But isn’t that what lawmen do?”

  “It’s certainly a part of their job, but not the whole of it. And they receive no added recompense for the criminals they apprehend. In fact, I’d wager the yearly salary of a sheriff or federal marshal is a fraction of what a bounty hunter makes.”

  “If that’s the case, why do they do it?”

  He gave a wry smile. “Why, indeed?” Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on the table and studied her over his laced fingers. “Maybe you’re the bounty hunter.”

  “Me?” She laughed. That husky, breathless sound that heightened his awareness of her all through his body.

  “You’re certainly clever enough,” he went on. “And with your beauty you could easily lure a man into a trap.”

  “You make me sound rather devious, like a spider enticing unsuspecting prey into her web.”

  “It’s
not unheard-of for a woman to take on that role.”

  Her smile faded. “Perhaps. But I think I’d rather be the pursued than the pursuer. A fly has more freedom and can see the world from every angle, while the spider is confined to her dark, lonely corner. How dull would that be?”

  “You crave excitement.”

  “If the alternative is boredom, then yes.” Laying her folded napkin beside her unfinished pudding, she gave a weary smile. “But right now, what I crave is sleep.”

  Taking that as his cue, Richard rose and came around to assist her. As he pulled out her chair, the scent of roses drifted up to him. Potent. Heady. Reminding him how long he had been without a woman. Firelight shimmered in her black hair, reflecting back glints of red and gold, and he imagined the silky feel of those dark strands sliding through his hands.

  One night. That was all he wanted.

  A feeling of regret moved through him. Why couldn’t she be a sporting woman? It would make everything so much simpler.

  “It’s been a lovely evening, Mr. Whitmeyer,” she said, regaining his attention. “Thank you for the first true meal I’ve eaten since Omaha City.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. James.” He fell into step beside her as they crossed to the lobby. “Shall I walk you to your room?” he asked when they reached the stairs.

  “That’s not necessary. Perhaps I’ll see you again before we resume our trip.”

  “Count on it.” He watched her climb to the landing, his gaze drawn to the gentle sway of her hips, the proud line of her back. A remarkable woman, the widow James. If he wasn’t careful, she could easily become his downfall.

  Sighing, he turned and walked out of the hotel and onto the boardwalk.

  • • •

  RACHEL waited at the top of the stairs until she saw the lobby doors close behind Mr. Whitmeyer then hurried down the hall. Stopping outside the door marked 210, she knocked softly.

  No response.

  She continued on to her room, pondered what to do, and finally penned a note to Harvey: Whitmeyer saw you come out of my room. Meet me at 9:00 A.M. at the depot. R. Then she returned and slipped the note beneath his door.

  As she walked back to her room, she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Richard Whitmeyer walking toward her.